


Aziraphale vs. The Hellhound

by charliebrown1234



Series: 5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Hellhounds, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234
Summary: What it says on the tin.Crowley is in Egypt, minding his own business when he bumps into Aziraphale, who is defending a local family from a hellhound. He is only moderately successful, and Crowley is forced to do some unorthodox first aid.3/30/20 Now with Fanart!





	Aziraphale vs. The Hellhound

**Author's Note:**

> The rating might be a little high, but better safe than sorry.

Crowley is in Egypt, minding his own business and performing minor temptations. A little lust here, a little petty jealousy there, all very normal demonic stuff. He probably would have continued with his temptations had he not felt an Angelic Presence. Normally, when Crowley felt a Presence it meant one of two things; an angel nearby was performing a miracle Crowley would need to counterbalance, or a _specific_ angel was performing a miracle to draw Crowley’s attention.

Either way, Crowley is done with temptations for the day. He meanders his way through wheat fields and mud huts, making his way towards the source. Upon passing the last hut in the village, he finds it. It’s Aziraphale (it’s almost always Aziraphale) and he is standing in front of a hellhound. More specifically, Aziraphale is standing between a hellhound and a group of humans. 

Crowley tucks himself behind the nearest hut and waits to see how the scene will play out.

* * *

Aziraphale keeps his eyes on the hellhound and calmly gestures for the family behind him to keep back. “Now, if you all would kindly move away, I’m going to stay here and distract the beast.” One of the children in the group (perhaps this was a family?) makes a jerky, aborted motion as if they’re readying themselves to sprint, and the hellhound snarls viciously in response. “Not too quickly, please,” Aziraphale murmurs. “A nice, steady pace will do just fine.”

As Crowley watches, the family (for he has decided they must be at least tangentially related) begins to move at a creeping walk away from their attacker. As they do, the hellhound takes a step forward and growls menacingly, only seeming slightly put off by the angel standing in front of it.

Aziraphale makes a gesture and miracles a sword into the palm of his hand as the hellhound sneaks forward, saying as he does, “We don’t need to make this ugly, you know. Just leave these people alone and go back to where you came from.”

The hellhound seems to disagree, rumbling discontentedly as it looks aggravatedly between the sword wielding angel and its prey. It takes a calculated swipe in Aziraphale’s direction, but the angel dodges swiftly backwards before placing himself firmly in front of the hound.

For a brief moment, there is silence, and as the sand susurrates beneath their feet, Crowley inches his way closer.

Then with a roar, the hellhound launches itself at the angel, teeth bared and claws extended. Aziraphale catches the beast in its chest with the flat of his blade and throws it backward, where it lands with a hollow whump on the sand. It quickly rights itself and springs at the angel’s unprotected side, which Aziraphale neatly deflects with a harsh slash of his blade. 

Aziraphale then glances quickly over his shoulder, appraising the now furiously running family with a calculating eye. In a few moments, they would be through the fields next to the village and out of sight.

In this brief moment, Crowley sees the hellhound readying itself for another leap, and yells, “Aziraphale! Look out!” as the muscular haunches push themselves into the air.

Aziraphale turns and thrust his sword upward neatly, tidily skewering the hellhounds chest. But the angle isn’t right to deliver instant death, and the hellhound bites furiously at the angel’s shoulder in retribution. 

Aziraphale cries out and drops his sword, clutching at his shoulder. Crowley finds himself running, already in motion as the hellhound bays and twists to snap at the angel who had wounded it. With the aid of a demonic miracle, Crowley is at Aziraphale’s side just in time to see the angel miracle a second sword into his hand and spear the hellhound through the neck.

The hellhound writhes in agony and bays furiously once more before discorporating and leaving a grisly, ooze covered carcass in the sand.

Danger defeated, Crowley turns towards Aziraphale, who is hunched over and clutching his right arm painfully to his chest. “Hello, Crowley,” the angel says weakly. “Surprise seeing you here.” He pales a shade lighter, looking ill underneath his flushed cheeks.

“Surprise seeing you kill a hellhound, angel, Crowley replies, inching closer. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I didn’t really, they were just such a nice family and—” Aziraphale stops short, then gasps, “I don’t- I don’t feel well at all Crowley.” He begins to list to his injured side.

Crowley reaches out a steadying hand, but Arziraphale turns abruptly and glares, saying, “Wait. Why are you here?” The angel staggers a step away from the demon. “Was all this your idea, Crowley? Was that your hellhound?”

“No, angel, I would never! I don’t kill kids, that’s all you lot. I was just in the area doing my usual tempting, stealing sheep, coveting wives, that sort of stuff.” 

The distress on Aziraphale’s face eases slightly at the denial. “Oh, that’s alright then.”

There is a beat of silence, and then Aziraphale cries out and collapses to his knees. Crowley rushes to his side and grabs his non injured shoulder, saying, “Angel, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you healing?”

Aziraphale folds over onto his knees and begins to pant in distress, looking for all the world like someone about to very ill. This close, Crowley can smell the blood from his shoulder, iron mixed with something holy and sweet, like incense. There is a secondary scent too, sickly and rotten that reminds him of Hell.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeats, giving the angel a slight shake, “What’s going on?!” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale gasps, “It feels-” The angel quashes a cry in his throat. “It hurts, Crowley, I -” He cuts off again with a tight moan and curls tighter, miserable and trembling.

Crowley crouches down in the sand and gingerly reaches out to peel Aziraphale’s tunic away, revealing deep puncture wounds in his shoulder. They’re leaking blood, which wouldn’t normally be a problem, but there is none of the normal light in the wounds that would indicate angelic healing. Instead, there’s black spittle, and as Crowley watches, it burrows deeper into the angel’s flesh. 

The only deduction Crowley can make is that hellhound bites are destructive to angels, similar to holy water being ruinous to demons. However, it doesn’t look as though Aziraphale is going to expire immediately, so it probably isn’t as lethal to angels as hellfire.

“Crowley, what’s wrong?” Aziraphale groans, jolting Crowley back to the present. “I can’t heal the wound.”

“Well,” says Crowley, “it looks like hellhound bites don’t react well to angelic corporations.”

“What does… that even mean, Crowley?” Aziraphale says, pausing to gasp weakly. 

“It means that we need to get that wound cleaned up before you discorporate or worse. Can you stand?” Aziraphale shakes his head miserably. “If you don’t stand, I’m going to have to carry you, and you’ll like that even less.” A strained silence, and then Aziraphale gives Crowley a pained look. 

“I need help. Would you mind, my dear?” Aziraphale looks truly constipated having to ask a demon for help, but Crowley supposes even an agent of hell will do in desperate times. 

“Sure angel, how do you want to do this?”

“Well, if you were to grab my left arm, I think I could manage to stand.”

“Alright, angel.” Crowley gingerly grabs Aziraphale’s arm and drapes it around his own neck. The angel’s manicured hand comes up to grip Crowley’s tunic securely. “Are you ready?” The angel nods, looking ashen and reluctant. “Let’s go, then.” And Crowley begins to pull steadily upwards.

After an interminable period of wheezing and pained gasps, the two are upright, and Crowley pauses for Aziraphale to collect himself. The angel’s breaths rasp alarmingly, and his chin touches his chest. Aziraphale leans his entire weight onto Crowley, and the demon sneaks an arm around the angel’s waist to help support him.

“You with me, angel?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes roll as he blinks them open, looking dazed. “Yes. Feeling a tad dizzy.” 

He closes his eyes again and swallows weakly, “One moment, and then we can go.” Sweat beads thickly on his brow. After a few moments, Aziraphale pales two shades lighter, and slumps further into Crowley’s arms. “Um, Crowley?”

“Yes?”

Crowley looks down at the angel, who is currently panting dryly on his collarbone. “I’m feeling very faint, my dear, I -” and with a soft “oh!” Aziraphale faints.

“Oh, bless it all to heaven,” Crowley curses. “Aziraphale! Hey, wake up. C’mon, this is not a good look for my demonic image!” He jostles the angel, but Aziraphale only flops limply in Crowley’s arms. Crowley curses again, and then contemplates his next course of action. 

He can’t just leave the angel in the open, lest the hellhound return, and the nearest hut is a solid 1,000 cubits away. With a quick glance upwards, Crowley twitches his fingers, and the hut finds itself standing next to the ethereal pair.

Crowley settles Aziraphale’s weight firmly across his shoulders and moves inside, surveying the room as he enters. A reed mat, several jugs of water, and a few personal belongings are all that are inside, but otherwise, it’s sparse. Maybe the family was moving? Crowley supposes it doesn’t really matter. The demon shrugs internally, and drags the unconscious Aziraphale to the reed mat.

With the angel roughly out of harm’s way, Crowley turns to leave. After all, he has no obligation to help, and he’s already performed a demonic miracle to keep the angel out of the open. A quiet moan stops him in his tracks, and Crowley turns reluctantly to see Aziraphale shifting restlessly on the mat. The angel’s face is flushed, and the cloth around his shoulder is stained a dark red.

Crowley groans and runs a hand through his hair, cursing quietly as guilt turns his stomach. “Fine,” he grumbles, “I’ll help him.” He continues to grumble as he grabs the nearest jug of water and a spare piece of cloth, saying things like, “stupid angel, should have paid more attention,” and “aren’t angels supposed to be warriors of God?”

Supplies gathered, Crowley kneels by Aziraphale’s side and eases the tunic from his wounded shoulder. The blood has started to congeal and clot, and the wound is now seeping black puss. This is not a good sign. He wets the cloth and begins to cautiously dab at the bite marks, but it doesn’t seem to do anything.

As he does so, Aziraphale stirs on the mat, twitching away from his probing fingers.

“Angel?” Crowley says, bending closer, “Are you back with me?”

“Crawly?” comes the weak reply.

“No, Aziraphale, it’s Crowley, keep up. How are you feeling?” Aziraphale squints at him from the mat, then flinches with a pained gasp as Crowley resumes dabbing at the wound.

“Not very well. What happened?”

“You were bit by a hellhound, and I dragged you into this hut.” Aziraphale nods foggily.

“You said you couldn’t heal the wound, can you try again?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale concentrates for a moment, then shakes his head.

“In that case,” Crowley continues, “you might need to ditch this corporation and take a trip upstairs. I’m not sure how hellhound venom works, but you don’t want it to spread to your ethereal form.” Aziraphale pales at this.

“Do you really think that’s possible?” Aziraphale asks nervously.

“I have no clue, angel, but I wouldn’t want to find out,” Crowley replies. Aziraphale’s eyes are wide.

“Why don’t you just look?” Crowley says.

“What?”

“Just,” Crowley pauses awkwardly, “look? Take a peek at the old ethereal form?” Aziraphale looks confused before he realizes what Crowley is saying, and his eyes glaze over as he presumably scans his corporation for damage.

It’s only half a second before Aziraphale’s eyes sharpen, but he doesn’t look reassured. “I can’t seem to focus long enough, my dear. Would you mind checking for me? I’ll try to tone it down.” This is, of course, in reference to an angel’s true form, which does not look an awful lot like a human being, and looks more like several spinning wheels of fire covered in eyes with multiple sets of wings.

Crowley scowls down at the angel, and says, “You had better,” before closing his eyes and shifting his atoms slightly sideways. When he opens them again, he is almost blinded by the light emitting from Aziraphale, but not quite. The heavenly glow is slightly dimmed from the last time Crowley had seen it (which was several decades ago due to an argument about ineffable plans and free will), but it was still eye wateringly bright. With an annoyed nudge in Aziraphale’s ethereal direction, the light dims further, and then shifts into a shape that looks vaguely like Aziraphale’s corporation.

There, located approximately at the corporation’s shoulder, is black slime. It’s sunk deep into the shoulder of the ethereal form, and it looks like it’s spreading slowly deeper inside. Crowley doesn’t want to know what will happen if the tendrils reach the swirling white maelstrom located in Aziraphale’s torso.

With a blink, he shifts sideways again, and looks back down at the corporeal form of the angel. It looks much worse than the ethereal version, covered in blood and sweat and panting lightly in the afternoon heat.

“Well?” Aziraphale says after a cough, “How bad is it?”

“It’s not great,” replies Crowley. “The venom is in your ethereal form, and it’s spreading. You’re probably better off ditching this corporation and going upstairs to have them fix you up.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, “Right. I’ll just, um, head upstairs then. No problem at all.”

“Right,” says Crowley. “I’ll see you in a decade or two I suppose.” He unfolds himself from the ground. “See ya later, angel.” He heads towards the door of the hut and hears a faint whooshing of ethereal feathers, before a strangled gasp has him whipping back around.

Aziraphale is trembling on the mat, back arched in strain as his invisible wings work desperately to pull him into the ethereal plane. The wound on his shoulder seeps blood faster, and after a few seconds, the angel drops to the floor, wheezing, “Crow…ley, help. Please.” Aziraphale is whimpering faintly now, curling up over his injured shoulder. 

Crowley leaps for the angel, and Aziraphale keens high in his throat, shivering so aggressively his hair trembles. “Can’t –” Aziraphale gasps, “can’t fly. Oh Lord, Crowley, I can’t fly!” The angel is almost in a fetal position, and his shoulder wound pours blood. Crowley roughly pushes him flat and shoves a nearby piece of fabric into the wound. Aziraphale wails in protest, plucking desperately at Crowley’s fingers and twisting away from the unrelenting pressure.

“Cut that out!” Crowley snarls, following the jackknifing angel. “If you can’t leave this corporation we’re going to have to fix it, so stop squirming!”

“Crowley, please, please stop, it hurts, plea – ” Aziraphale’s last please turns into a choked cry as Crowley pins him to the mat. His eyes go foggy and middle distance as he pants for air, and for a brief moment there is silence in the hut.

“Now, how do we fix this?” Crowley asks. “We need to get rid of the venom, but I can’t miracle it away because I’m not the demon who put it there. Do you have any bright ideas? 

Aziraphale’s fingers scrabble on the mat, and his eyes roll as Crowley pushes further into the shoulder wound. “Well?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale twitches. 

“Maybe holy water?” says Crowley, thinking out loud. “But I can’t touch the stuff and you’re in no shape to do it yourself. Also, we don’t have any. Just normal water.” He frowns. Aziraphale whimpers pitifully as Crowley peels the cloth from the wound. The blood has slowed to a trickle, possibly a sign there’s some angelic healing occurring, but the hell scent is getting stronger too, which Crowley does not think is a good sign.

Also not good signs include the sweat matting the angel’s blonde hair to his head and the faint, intermittent tremors that wrack the angel’s frame. If Crowley doesn’t act soon, Aziraphale’s corporation won’t be the only thing destroyed.

Unfortunately, Crowley’s only idea involves the one substance that could actually kill him. If only there was someone around to help…

A human head pokes in the door of the hut. Within the blink of an eye, Crowley spins around and hisses threateningly, unconsciously mantling his wings over Aziraphale’s frame. It’s just a child however, small and frail looking. It pulls its head back, and seems to be about to flee before Crowley regains his senses and cries out, “Wait!”

The child inches back into the doorway, looking nervously at the angel on the mat. Crowley reaches out with a demonic wile and soothes the child’s fear.

“It’s all right,” Crowley croons, “You just startled me, that’s all. Why don’t you come in here and give me a hand?”

The child looks nervously at the ailing angel on the mat, and back to the strained demon at his side. Crowley opens his mouth to entice further, but a second voice speaks instead, saying, “Chike, where are you?”

The child turns, and says, “In here, Father!”

A large Egyptian man moves into the hut, quickly taking in the scene. Crowley recognizes him as one of the men from the family Aziraphale had been defending. “Who are you?” says the man, addressing Crowley. “What is wrong with Heryheb Fell?”

“The dog attacked him. The wound has become infected, and I can’t clean it. Will you help me?” Crowley doesn’t know how infections work in human corporations, but hopefully Aziraphale’s miserable state will tempt the man to help.

“Yes, of course. Heryheb Fell is a most holy man, and we would be honored to help him,” the man says. “What do you need me to do?” A plan is rapidly forming in Crowley’s mind. If he can get Aziraphale awake to bless the water, the humans can pour the holy water into the wound while he stays clear. Then hopefully the hellhound venom will be gone, and Aziraphale can go back to being insufferably holy.

“I’m going to need you to clean out his wounds,” Crowley replies. “He’s too strong for one man to do the job. But first I need to wake him up.” With that, Crowley turns back to Aziraphale.

The angel is still mostly unconscious, but the trembling has worsened into intermittent full body jerks. He’s also stopped panting for air, which Crowley supposes is an improvement, but now Crowley can barely tell if the angel is breathing at all. Crowley reaches out and prods at him, saying, “Aziraphale, wake up. Need a minor miracle.” No response. Crowley tries again, prodding him a little harder. Aziraphale’s head rocks limply on the reed mat.

It’s time to try something out of Hell’s playbook. Crowley reaches out his hand and reapplies pressure to the shoulder wound, firmly pushing down into the seeping cuts. With a guttural groan, Aziraphale’s eyes spring open and focus on Crowley.

“What’s going on?” the angel gasps. “What have you done to my shoulder?”

“Nothing, Aziraphale. You were attacked by a hellhound, don’t you remember?” The wound is hot under Crowley’s hand, and the angel looks dazed and in pain.

“Oh…I suppose I do. It hurts very much…” Aziraphale is fading, and Crowley pushes harder into his shoulder.

“No, you don’t, angel. Stay with me.” Pain filled blue eyes refocus on Crowley as the demon reaches out a long arm and drags a container of water to Aziraphale’s side. “You have to bless this, make it holy so we can fix your shoulder.”

Aziraphale looks concerned. “But what about you, my dear? It will destroy you!”

Crowley sniffs dismissively and says, “That’s why I’m getting your friend here to do it. I’ll be safely outside the whole time.”

Aziraphale still looks worried. “It’ll be fine, angel,” Crowley drawls. “Look, I’ll go stand in the doorway. Is that better?”

Aziraphale nods, then scrunches up his face in concentration and reaches a hand out over the water. Crowley narrows his eyes and shifts slightly sideways in the planes to see Aziraphale briefly glow and transfer light into the jug. Then, he slumps limply back to the mat.

Crowley looks closer at the angel’s ethereal form while he’s shifted sideways, noticing it’s even dimmer than before. The black slime has made steady progress outward from the shoulder wound and is starting to encroach on the white maelstrom in the angel’s chest. They need to move fast.

“Can you handle this on your own?” Crowley asks, looking at Chike’s father.

“No, I will need help. Give me a few moments, and I will gather my brothers. I will be back shortly.” He walks quickly out of the hut and into the afternoon sun. Chike follows him, with a backward glance at the angel before slipping out the door.

Crowley creeps back to Aziraphale’s side, keeping a wary eye on the holy water. With a gentle hand, he rolls Aziraphale onto his back and wipes some of the sweat beading on the angel’s brow. Aziraphale tracks his movements, eyes half lidded, before swallowing weakly and shuddering.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale snorts weakly in response. “Sorry, dumb question. How are you doing?”

“Poorly,” Aziraphale whispers. The blessing of the holy water has taken it out of him, and his skin is waxy.

“I can’t be here when they’re pouring the holy water, angel, so you’ll have to stay still. If you lose control you could kill them, and I know how much you like these humans.” 

Aziraphale smiles weakly at this. “They really are a very nice family, my dear. After this, I’ll introduce you. Little Chike is such… such a spitfire, you’d really get along.” There is a pause as Aziraphale wheezes for breath. It seems like the angel is having a hard time getting enough air.

Chike and his father reappear in the doorway, along with three other large men. Crowley leans closer to Aziraphale’s ear and says quietly, “I’ll be right outside. Try not to die. I won’t miss you, of course, but I bet your replacement will be boring.” 

Aziraphale smiles fondly at him, and whispers, “You won’t be rid of me that easily, you wily serpent. Now, shoo.”

With a last glance at the still faintly smiling Aziraphale, Crowley stands up and moves toward the doorway of the hut. The three men and Chike’s father replace him, taking up positions at the angel’s arms and legs. Little Chike moves to Aziraphale’s head and kneels down, whispering something into the angel’s ear before lifting his head onto his lap.

Aziraphale almost looks serene, cradled there, but Crowley knows the serenity won’t last long. Already, Chike’s father is lifting the jug to pour the holy water onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, and as the first splashes of water impact, Aziraphale shouts hoarsely. 

Steam is rising as the holy water mixes with the black slime, but it doesn’t seem to be going into the shoulder wound properly. Aziraphale shouts again, and twists on the floor. It’s obvious that he’s trying to keep himself still, but the pain is beginning to overwhelm him.

Crowley winces in sympathy, and blinks sideways to check on the holy water’s ethereal progress. The black slime has been lessened some, but it looks like most of it is under the corporation’s skin. Crowley calls for the men to stop, stomach sinking in dread.

“We have to get the water inside the wound to clean it properly,” Crowley says. He miracles a funnel into existence behind his back and tosses it to Chike’s father. “Put this into the wound and pour the water inside.”

Chike’s father looks at the tool grimly and shifts his weight on Aziraphale’s ruined shoulder. The angel looks wrecked, panting weakly and exhaling tiny “nngh” sounds as the child Chike gently pets Aziraphale’s sweat soaked curls. Crowley wishes he could give him more of a reprieve, but Chike’s father is already efficiently pulling open the largest of the puncture wounds and shoving the funnel inside. Aziraphale chokes wetly. Then, with a steady hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and a firm grip on the jug, Chike’s father begins to pour.

Aziraphale screams in agony. He bucks up once, twice, trying to pull away from the restraining hands that pin him to the mat, then slumps back down. But he continues to scream, pausing only to suck in breath. Chike pats fretfully at his temples in an attempt to soothe him.

Aziraphale’s shoulder is smoking in earnest now, huge clouds of whitish smoke emitting from the wound. Aziraphale’s screams turn into broken yells as Crowley shifts sideways once again. In the ethereal plane, there is a high pitched whine that makes Crowley grab his ears, and he realizes with a start that it’s Aziraphale’s true form screaming.

He can barely make out Aziraphale’s ethereal corporation, and what he can see through the blinding light looks like a ball of feathers and eyes. There is a dark patch on the twitching mass, but it’s rapidly vanishing as white smoke swallows it whole. At least the treatment is working.

Crowley shifts sideways with a wince as Aziraphale flares even brighter, and now his ears are being buffeted instead of his eyes. Apparently the deepest hellhound venom is now being drawn out, and Aziraphale is screaming in ways Crowley has only ever heard in Hell. It’s guttural and desperate, and it only comes out of the truly anguished souls in the pit. It crests higher and higher, then there is a puff of white smoke, a bright light, and silence.

The only sound in the room is the frenzied breathing of Aziraphale, and the quiet breaths of the men who diligently held him down. All of Chike’s family looks shell shocked and ill. With a wet sucking sound, Chike’s father removes the funnel and throws it aside, looking queasy. He stands shakily, and then says, “We will give you your space.”

His brothers follow him out, as does the child Chike after carefully setting Aziraphale’s head back onto the mat. They brush past Crowley, one by one, until the only beings left in the hut are ethereal. Crowley takes careful steps to the angel’s side, inspecting each inch of ground for holy water. After a tense few minutes, during which Aziraphale’s breathing calms to a normal rate, Crowley is close enough to touch the angel.

“Aziraphale,” he says, leaning close, “Wake up.” Aziraphale twitches, and his nose wrinkles grumpily. “Aziraphale!” Aziraphale startles, winces, and then opens his eyes. Blue eyes blink at Crowley, then flicker with a grimace to his wounded shoulder, which rapidly begins closing over. Within a few seconds, nothing remains of the wound. The only sign Aziraphale was ever injured are the blood stains on his tunic. Crowley almost expects Aziraphale to miracle those away too, but when he glances back at the angel there is exhaustion writ large in the lines of his face.

“I’d help you up,” says Crowley, looking at the angel’s supine position on the floor, “but you seem to be a bit holy at the moment.”

Aziraphale pushes himself up onto an elbow and looks at the water dripping from his tunic. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. Let me.” He glares hard at the water, and within a moment the hut is dryer than the air outside. Crowley notices that the jugs of non-holy water next to the mat have been emptied, too.

“So, all back to normal then?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale looks a little winded, (probably from performing a miracle only moments after being healed), and says, “Seems like. Everything is tickety-boo. Tip-top shape even.”

“Well,” Crowley says, feeling awkward all of a sudden, “that’s good news. Almost thought you were going to be destroyed there for a moment.”

Aziraphale’s face twists, then smooths back out. “I’m not so easy to destroy,” Aziraphale replies. Crowley can hear the fear lurking underneath the false bravado, but decides to ignore it in favor of holding out a hand. There is a beat as Aziraphale considers him, then takes Crowley’s hand in his own. Aziraphale’s palm is warm and smooth. 

In one easy motion, Crowley pulls Aziraphale to his feet. The angel sways a little, sending Crowley’s treacherous heart racing, and he grabs at Aziraphale’s now healed shoulder for support. Aziraphale gives him an exhausted smile.

“I’m fine, my dear. Just tired. It’s not everyday I fight off a hellhound.” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s hand gently. “A few days of rest and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Of course, of course,” Crowley says. “Will you be resting up here, then?” he asks nonchalantly, casually removing his hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale replies. “Chike’s family have already helped me so much, I couldn’t impose any further. I’ll just find a nice inn somewhere.”

At this point, Crowley would really like to say, “You could stay with me for a bit. You know, make sure I don’t tempt any humans or cause mischief,” but what comes out instead is, “Ah. I’ll be seeing you around, then.”

“I suppose you will.”

The two stand awkwardly for a moment, and then Crowley turns toward the door with purpose.

“Crowley, wait.” Crowley pauses in the doorway. “What you did today…” There is a long pause. “Thank you. I could have died.” Aziraphale’s eyes are warm and trusting, and Crowley’s heart twists pleasantly in his chest.

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley says, and he walks out the door into the sand and sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:  
> According to Google, Chike means "the power of God". I don't know anything about Ancient Egypt however, so take this with a grain of salt. 
> 
> My lovely beta [BirdyMarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdyMarie/pseuds/BirdyMarie) did some research and found that lector priests were called "heryheb," which literally means carrier of the book. Therefore Aziraphale is undercover as a traveling holy man. 
> 
> Also, this is going to be part of a 5 +1 series, entitled "5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was."


End file.
